Mal des transports
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: The truth is, Francis gets awful motion sickness traveling.


Author's note: I think I have 14 stories from my vacation, maybe more. Can't remember now though I do remember it was 60 pages in my notebook. They'll be going up slowly because they need work (and sex), and the pairings are all over the place, but they all reflect something I'd done that day or some cultural aspect to give them a touch of authenticity and to trigger my memories when I write more.

For this story specifically: I had had to explain to my French professor what I meant when I wrote that getting from the States to central France I had had "motion sickness", which is something quite normal for me. Even my English-French dictionary indicates that it's an American phrase, so that's all you need to know for the French reference here. Maybe it doesn't hold for all Francophones, but it was the idea behind this.

Also Nice's most famous street is Promenade des Anglais, or English Promenade. And Nice is pronounced like the English word "niece" and is on the French Riviera, if you've never heard of it. I take for granted sometimes that not everyone knows my favorite French towns. I also take for granted that the French have their fries with mayo, which is more brilliant than it sounds.

And not to make this the longest AN of mine but I just read the Hetalia Christmas event up to now and let me tell you, between that and a Hetalia challenge I signed up for, there will be so many stories coming your way.

* * *

><p><strong>Mal des transports<br>**(n, s, masc)

The truth is, Francis gets awful motion sickness traveling. Each year he feels himself becoming more and more sick going to world meetings, visiting frenemies, even just going from his house in Paris down to Nice for the week before Christmas. He used to make this trip every year, for over a century; what happened?

His own language, his beloved French, the longest of his kept mistresses, doesn't have a real word for the phenomenon. Alfred was the one who named it after a trans-Atlantic flight to New York City taken a day early so Arthur wouldn't see Francis ill. Motion sickness!, the American boy had declared before calling the French nation an old man. He'd apologized later when Matthew let slip Francis wasn't planning on sending the American's Christmas gift that year, but the older nation still knows the younger one was right: Francis is old. And miserable from traveling.

Six hours from Paris to Lyon, then four hours to Nice; that was a shit idea. He's alternating between giving up on trains, wanting the TGV to go faster, and just getting off at the next stop, when the fuzzy voice announces Nice is the next station. Francis thanks the Virgin Mary, pulling his scarf back on, and stands to get his bags. He waits at the top of the stairs before the train stops, descending from first to second class to exit. The fresh air is a welcomed relief, though he does still prefer to spend his time outside with his boys. Thinking back on fond memories of young Matthew and Alfred at a time before motion sickness made visiting them hard, Francis saddles up his bags, ready to head off.

* * *

><p>The house is free of dust; Francis makes a mental note to give his little Italian housekeeper a bigger bonus than normal this year in appreciation of that simple fact. Not that he should be spending so lavishly, but he does like the tiny woman and her grandchildren. And it's wonderful to just be able to throw his things down, strip, and hop right into the shower after a day of trains and vomiting and feeling disgusting. It's so nice in fact that Francis wants to never get out from beneath the warm stream, but in the end he knows he has to.<p>

Feeling a little better he flips through his Nice journal, a beautiful notebook his little Seychelloise had given him last he saw her. Finding a note to remind him of his favorite take-out place, fingers dial the number long ago memorized on his phone.

"What Frog?" Arthur barks out.

"Où es-tu? J'ai faim."

"Go eat then idiot."

"Je veux manger des kebabs," Francis says hopefully. There's a pause before the snappy response.

"Same place as always, I'm leaving the airport now, give me fifteen minutes."

* * *

><p>Normally Francis sits facing the street, being one for people watching, but having his back to the window becomes worth it when two arms wrap around his neck, hands splaying over his chest and English lips kissing his cheek. The moment would be almost romantic, if Arthur didn't immediately stand and hold out his hand. "Give me money, I didn't change mine."<p>

"Some things never change," Francis murmurs, handing over the exact amount he'd already prepared. And while Arthur waits, his French only prefect when it comes to getting a kebab, Francis watches him. He seems jittery, nervous, the same look he's taken on each time he comes to France over the last few months. But he also looks healthy despite having just gotten off the plane from London in Nice's airport; Francis envies him that.

"What Frog?" Arthur demands as his fries are plated, eyeing the other nation suspiciously from behind thick black plastic glasses he only ever wears with Francis. They do nothing for his face, and that's what the Frenchman loves most about them.

"You look good is all," Francis sighs graciously. The Englishman blushes, taking his food and sitting. He does look good, black glasses, blue plaid jacket, gray sweater, dark jeans. His Union Jack beanie is pulled from his head, shoved into a pocket, before he starts in on his food.

"Eat," Arthur says through a stuffer mouth. Francis notices he got mayonnaise with his fries. "Idiot."

* * *

><p>Francis is laying on the bed, still shot from the train ride down, when he hears the shower turn off, Arthur emerging with a towel about his waist, another rubbing at his hair. "You still look pale," he comments as he stands over the French nation. A drop of water falls from the English nose onto Francis's face. "They make drugs for motion sickness don't they?"<p>

"They also make drugs for your sex problem," Francis quips, closing his eyes in fatigue.

"Ha. Ha." The bed bounces when Arthur jumps on, still pulling his boxers up judging by the rustling sound. There's silence for a bit as the man just sits there before stating, "I like Nice."

"A lot of English tourists," the older man comments. They've wintered here together for years, the old house having held up despite the changing landscape and wars and time.

Arthur's response it to scoot under one of Francis's arms, flipping on France 24 (en anglais, annoyingly), and running a hand over the Frenchman's soft skin absentmindedly. English lips kiss a French shoulder, eyes glued to the financial report.

"We're getting old," the French nation sighs after a moment, taking in the ceiling.

"Yeah, well," and Arthur shifts to look at him, giving his lover a rare smile that makes his heart melt and all the air leave his lungs. It's a smile that's real, raw, a reflection of all the things Arthur feels for Francis deep down inside. "At least we're doing it together." His kiss is sweet, mayo and salt and beer. Francis thinks this, after everything else, made dealing with motion sickness worth it.

Even if moments like these tend to last only seconds before Arthur somehow ruins the mood.

Pulling back suddenly the Englishman announces, "Go wash your mouth out again," in the same way one might complain that they stepped in dog shit on the sidewalk.

"Encore?" He's already done it twice.

"Yes Frog, no sex until you-" Francis is already in the bathroom before Arthur finishes his statement.


End file.
